Learned
by Cranky Crocus
Summary: Rosethorn/Lark. A word-of-the-day drabble-turned-oneshot. Rosethorn mourns the loss of her unnamed mentor/teacher and Lark is there to bring her Rosie back to reality.


dour \DOO-uhr; DOW-uhr\, _adjective_:

**1.** Harsh; stern.  
**2.** Unyielding; inflexible; obstinate.  
**3.** Marked by ill humor; gloomy; sullen.

"Love, come with me," Lark commanded softly. Her face was gentle, caring, yielding… Rosethorn looked up and envisioned the sun.

Her own face was tense, harsh and dour. Lark's face was the only thing that seemed to shine in the room. It was such a well known room, the kitchen of Discipline. It hadn't changed much at all in decades of use. Why change what worked?

"Rosie."

The woman took one last look around the room and stared up again at that shining face. Not happy, not smiling, just shining. Welcoming. There was a great sadness in that face as well. Those eyes contained a sea of sadness, but no resentment. No anger or hopes for revenge.

"Come."

Rosethorn stood, went to smooth her dirtied and crumpled habit. She had been in it for three days. The willowy Dedicate shook her head, reached forward and put a hand on the shorter woman's shoulder. The entire habit smoothed and brightened, as close to new as the plant mage had ever seen it. She nodded and put herself in Lark's arms.

The woman was surprised but held the younger female anyway, walking them out through the vulnerable mage's workshop and into the fruit of her hard work. The gardens were spectacular in the late noon light. Lark positioned Rosethorn to face it all head on, and then moved to press her front against the redhead's back.

"Look at all she taught you."

Rosethorn watched the garden, let her eyes glide over the happy foliage and singing flowers, much the way she had done the cabin's kitchen. Not seeing. At last she spoke.

"She has more to teach. Why is she gone?" Her voice was heart-wrenching—small and subdued—nothing Rosethorn.

"I could tell you religiously, or personally, or from others' mouths. I don't know, Rosethorn. But look—look—at what she taught you. Look how she lives on."

Rosethorn pressed back into Lark, took those golden hands and brought them to her hips, covered in an earthy habit.

"You were her brightest student. Her favorite student," Lark remarked softly into the woman's ear. "But more important than any of that, she loved your soul and your flare and your ability to love."

Rosethorn remained silent, looking but seeing none of the beauty of the garden, nothing of the love that had taught her how to befriend the soil and bring such vibrant plants to life.

"I saw the way she looked at you. How proud she was of all that you have become, all that she managed to teach you and all that you managed to learn on your own. Oh, Rosethorn, won't you look?"

A rose came into view in the mourning soul's eye. It hugged the vine in a friendly manner, dazzling petals out to catch the sun and greet the sweet air. Rosethorn walked to it, tugging gently at Lark's hand, and stopped before it. The woman reached forward, pricked her finger delicately on the thorn. She brought the blood to the colorful head and caressed the soft petals, leaving a small trail of her essence just a shade lighter than the natural color of the flower.

"Like that, Lark?" the woman asked slowly. "It hurts, but it heals."

The rose, after receiving the attention—even though the giver was hurt, mourning—turned to her at a plant's slow pace. No hurry, no destination. The petals appeared to be smiling. It was happy to know Rosethorn was there and caring for it through pain and heartbreak. It was happy to offer the same of the woman, through beauty and elegance and aesthetics.

"Will you look now, Rosie?" Lark questioned. Her voice was lilting and gracious. She sent the rose a look of such gratefulness that it was hard to believe the rose was ever thought to be primitive or inanimate, less alive.

Rosethorn placed herself in front of Lark the way they had been before and looked out over the garden. The greens were healthy and happy, the colors vibrant and ecstatic, the variegation natural and perfect in the way only nature could achieve. The soil was cared for and nutritious, the air itself vibrating with such wholeness that the entire community shone.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, closed it again. Parted, pressed. At last her full lips formed a shaky but present smile. She turned, threw her arms around the taller woman, pressed their lips together, and sobbed into her shoulder.

Lark held the woman and let their bodies slide down. The green mage sat much as a child in Lark's lap, sprawled out over her crossed legs and crying into the golden collarbone. The thread mage stroked the beautiful auburn hair.

The taller female smiled at the plants that went to wrap around or touch their two bodies.


End file.
